


I'm Bent So Low in My Hunger

by perilit



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29136312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: Colter was supposed to be a quick stop on their mad dash east. A brief chance to regroup, to lick their wounds and rest.One week turns to four, and even the strongest of them isn't immune to the heedless bite of reality.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	I'm Bent So Low in My Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by a lovely tweet from @athuox on Twitter about the gang being trapped in Colter for much longer than in canon. My brain did the rest.
> 
> **Tiny warning for a brief, blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to self-harm at the end.   
> **References to suicidal ideation from Arthur. 
> 
> No proper formatting here, just vibes.

Colter was supposed to be a quick stop on their mad dash east from Blackwater. Just long enough to wait out the snow. Just long enough to wait out the storm.

Except that the snow wasn’t melting. The Grizzlies had been struck by an unseasonably cold spring, temperatures still well below freezing despite the sun’s feeble attempts to send down traces of warmth. They’d arrived at the old mining camp with meager supplies, and four weeks later, even Arthur and Charles and Javier’s tireless efforts weren’t enough to keep them afloat.

Everyone had lost weight. Jack’s baby fat had melted off his cheeks prematurely, leaving him scrawny and tired. He spent most of his time huddled silently into Abigail’s side, accepting his portions with wide, hollow eyes. 

John had recovered, mostly, the gashes in his cheeks still angry and purpled, one eye still swollen shut, but he was strong enough to ride out and set traps, now, and he did, as often as he could.

Arthur, though, was gone the most. 

Hosea had seen him more than once sneaking his portions to Jack or one of the girls, and though his coat did a good job of disguising his appearance, Arthur’s eyes betrayed him, sunken in and bloodshot above his scarf. 

That is when he actually  _ saw  _ the man. More often than not, Arthur would ride out before dawn, only returning well after dark. Sometimes he’d come back laden with scrawny deer and rabbits and turkeys, but just as often, he’d come back, slumped in the saddle and radiating guilt, as if the lack of game was his own fault and not a product of the harsh winter. 

* * *

Hosea wakes up pressed into Dutch’s side, wincing at the feel of the man’s ribs against his own. Dutch groans against him, pressing his face into the thin pillow and mumbling out a string of syllables.

“What?” Hosea murmurs, amused.

Dutch rolls over, opening an eye to peer at him blearily in the dim light. “Said, I should go out, see if I can find supplies.” 

Hosea nods, stroking a thumb thoughtfully over the joint of Dutch’s shoulder. “Might ride out with John, see if we can’t set some more traps.” 

Dutch hums low in his throat. “Hope Arthur finds somethin’.” 

“Haven’t seen him ride in in a few days.” Hosea’s thumb pauses in its gentle caress.

Dutch waves a lazy hand. “M’sure he just rode out further than usual. He’ll be back. If he’s not in by tomorrow, we can send Charles out for him.” 

Hosea sighs, sitting up and muffling a harsh cough in his elbow when the movement irritates his lungs. 

Dutch is at his shoulder, suddenly, pressing his large, warm palm to Hosea’s chest. “Easy, now.” 

Hosea waves him off. “M’fine. Just the air.” 

“Sure,” Dutch nods, looking entirely unconvinced but letting Hosea go without a fight. 

  
  


Arthur  _ does  _ ride in that night, just as Hosea is making his way towards the hitching posts. The lantern bathes Arthur’s horse in light, and Hosea’s eyes catch on the two deer tied to the back of his saddle. 

“Arthur, son, how’d you get on?” He calls out, moving to pat Silver Dollar’s nose idly while he watches Arthur steer his horse to the post. 

“Fine,” Arthur calls back. His weariness is evident in his voice. 

Arthur swings a leg over to dismount, wavering unsteadily and catching himself at the last moment with a harsh tug on the mare’s mane. The mare snorts testily, stomping a hoof into the snow. Hosea watches him carefully, concern starting to flicker in his gut at the way Arthur is trembling, almost beneath notice. 

The scarf covering Arthur’s face falls down when he finally hits the ground, and Hosea feels a jolt of panic at the sharp hollows in his son’s cheeks. 

Arthur yawns, and his eyes slip shut for a moment, body slumping against the horse before he forces his eyelids open again.

Hosea’s seen enough. He wades through the snow, grabbing Arthur’s shoulder, looping the end of the reins to the post carelessly. The mare won’t wander off if she’s smart. 

They’re halfway to the cabins before Arthur realizes where they’re going, a fact that only deepens Hosea’s worry. He shakes his head a little as if to wake himself up, attempting to tug out of Hosea’s grip. 

Hosea gentles his hand but doesn’t let go. “How long have you been awake, son?” He asks quietly. 

Arthur shakes his head blearily. “Didn’...wanna stop. Y’needed th’meat.” 

“We’d have been just fine,” Hosea scolds him gently, though he knows Arthur’s right- they’re in dire need of the food. Doesn’t mean he’s happy that his son has been awake for--

_Hm._ _Arthur never answered._

Hosea can guess, though, and he’s not reassured by the way Arthur is slurring his words.

They’ve all pushed through their fair share of sleepless nights, especially here, but Arthur’s running on fumes- likely even less than  _ that _ . God only knows where he would’ve ended up if Hosea hadn’t gone out to greet him - he might’ve just fallen asleep on his horse. 

Hosea pushes open the cabin Arthur’s been staying in, and Charles sits up from his bedroll at the rush of cold air. Hosea grimaces at him apologetically, but Charles just shakes his head, getting up to close the door. 

Arthur is swaying on his feet in the warmth of the cabin, clearly trying not to lean too much of his weight on Hosea. He sits down heavily on the floor once they reach his bedroll, though his legs buckle more than they consciously decide to fold. Hosea slides off Arthur’s boots, dodging Arthur’s fatigued attempts to help. He gently pushes his son into lying down, crouching to tug the bedroll up. 

Arthur’s eyes are sliding closed before Hosea’s even finished, weariness preventing him from keeping them open any longer even if sleep hasn’t claimed him just yet. 

Even then, it doesn’t take long for Arthur’s breath to even out. Hosea moves a hand up to smooth back Arthur’s hair against the pillow and stops at the heat of Arthur’s face, unsure if it’s from exertion or illness. Arthur’s breathing remains clear and quiet, though, so Hosea resumes his motion, tucking back the stray hair and tugging the wool blanket a little higher.

He’s fussing, now, and he knows it.

  
  


John steps through the door, stomping snow off of his boots, the healing marks on his face still an angry purple-red that’s visible even in the dim. 

He nods at Arthur’s sleeping form. “He get on okay?” 

Hosea sighs, nods. “Brought in two deer from who-knows-where. Dead on his feet, though, almost fell off his horse.” 

John snorts, stooping to pull off his boots. He pauses when Hosea’s pinched brow doesn’t relax, his own sour expression gentling. “He’ll be fine, Hosea.” 

Hosea nods, glancing down at Arthur again. 

Someone’s got to get those deer to Pearson. 

  
  


* * *

Hosea wakes with a jolt at the rap of knuckles on the weathered cabin door. It’s cold, even through the layers of blankets, and Hosea can’t tell what time it is - it seems like it’s always dark, now.

Dutch blinks beside him before calling out, sounding as tired as Hosea feels. 

John’s gravel-bitten voice floats through the wood. “It’s--Arthur, ain’t- he ain’t doin’ well.” 

Oh, Hosea is  _ wide awake, _ now. 

Dutch is tugging on his boots. Hosea races to catch up, shrugging back into his coat and hurrying to meet John. 

  
  


Charles is crouched on the floor by Arthur, whose face is unnaturally pale against the dark fabric of his union suit. Hosea shoulders past Dutch and John, stooping down by Charles. He places a palm on Arthur’s forehead, wincing at the damp heat there. 

Dutch is at his shoulder, then; Hosea can tell by the cigar-smoke that sticks to Dutch like a cloud. He looks up, finds his own worry reflected in the liquid depths of the other man’s eyes. 

“He’ll be okay,” Hosea murmurs, more out of habit than anything else. He can tell Dutch doesn’t believe it. 

Hosea’s not so sure he believes it, either. 

Arthur wakes up in the afternoon, briefly, though he doesn’t do more than stare tiredly at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. The raw exhaustion in every line of his body hurts to look at, makes the guilt in Hosea’s chest spike deeper into his heart and claw into his stomach.

Arthur’s fever doesn’t break, and by evening, they make the decision to move him into Dutch and Hosea’s cabin, with a real bed. 

He’s frighteningly pliant, letting Charles and Javier support his weight without a word, his head bobbing slightly in fatigue. Hosea sets him up in the bed, maneuvering Arthur’s slack limbs gently.

It’s quiet now, Arthur’s eyes closed again despite the fact that Hosea knows he’s not asleep. He still hasn’t said a word, and the fever-flush has crept down his neck and chest, weaving scarlet blooms on the ghostly white of his skin. Hosea had asked him if he needed anything earlier. Arthur had just simply blinked, turning his head on the pillow towards the window. 

It’s not the first time he’s seen Arthur sick, and it’s not uncommon for the man to withdraw into himself, either. If Dutch’s sadness was a cloud, Arthur’s is a canyon: quiet, largely unseen, and ever-present, try as though he might to hide it. 

Hosea doesn’t know how deep Arthur’s lows truly run, He’s seen glimpses; the night after Eliza and Isaac passed, the year John left, in passing moments, before Arthur slips it away into something more neutral. It’s there, if he looks, woven into the creases of Arthur’s face, in the curve of his shoulders. 

Hosea doesn’t know if this is something different, or if exhaustion and grief have eaten away at the walls shielding the gang from the worst of Arthur’s sadness. 

It won’t do any good to ask; Arthur’s words have seemingly dried up with the last of his energy. 

* * *

Neither Dutch nor Hosea move out of the cabin in the days that pass, choosing instead to make their bed on the floor, both to keep an eye on Arthur and because...Hosea doesn’t know how to answer the questions he knows are waiting for him. 

Dutch isn’t faring much better, his worry sometimes carrying well through the night. Hosea wakes up more than once to find Dutch sitting by Arthur’s bed, silent and tense.

The fever is a silent, constant presence, oppressive and heavy on all of them. 

Arthur starts to cry out in his sleep.

* * *

  
  
  


Hosea wakes as Dutch is crawling out of the blankets, watching through half-open eyes as Dutch pulls up the chair by the bed. 

Arthur groans through his teeth. 

Dutch smooths a large hand over his chest in slow circles. 

“Shh, son.” Dutch’s voice is low, gruff from sleep. 

Hosea sits up, shivering as the covers pool around his waist but making no move to fix them.

Arthur’s body shudders under Dutch’s hand. His head is turned towards Hosea, and in the weak moonlight coming through the glass, Hosea can see the moment his eyes open, focusing on Dutch’s face. 

“Dutch...” 

It’s the first thing he’s said since Hosea had met him out by the hitching posts, no more than a faint whisper. 

Dutch leans forward in the chair. “I’ve got you, son.” 

Arthur’s body shudders again, teeth clattering in his skull when he relaxes his jaw. He groans again, head tossing weakly on the pillow. “Dutch,” 

“I know,” Dutch murmurs, quiet. “I’ve got you now, you’re alright.”

Arthur shakes his head, brow furrowing at Dutch’s words, but says nothing.

It’s quiet for a spell. Hosea debates going back to sleep. 

Dutch moves to tug the blankets higher. He stops when Arthur shifts, shakes out a sigh, moving his face to look at Dutch again. 

“Sh-shoot me.” 

Dutch freezes. “Arthur….” 

Hosea can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears that roll down Arthur’s face, but he’s looking up at Dutch with desperation now, the blue of his eyes unnaturally bright against the bloodshot whites. 

“Tired,” Arthur whispers. “I…” He shudders again, clenches his jaw. His eyes slide shut. 

Dutch leans forward, hunching over to rest his forehead on the edge of the bed. 

Hosea blinks away the tears in his own eyes, crossing the cold floor to rest a gentle hand on Dutch’s back. His knees pop in the unsteady silence.

The muscles under his palm twitch. 

Hosea can’t talk past the lump in his own throat. He moves his hand in broad strokes up and down the length of Dutch’s back. 

Arthur has slipped back into sleep, sweat-damp hair stuck to his temple, unaware of his father’s silent grief. 

Dutch’s breath hitches on a sob, and he stands unsteadily, pushing open the cabin door and stepping out without looking back at Hosea. 

  
  


Hosea is left staring down at Arthur’s sunken face. His hand finds its way to the hair stuck to Arthur’s forehead, and he gently brushes it away. 

“You don’t get to die first, you hear me? Not before I do.” 

He’s almost proud of the way his voice barely shakes. 

  
  


He finds Dutch around the side of the cabin, sunk down into the snow with his knees pulled to his chest. 

Hosea crouches down. Dutch had left his coat in the cabin, and Hosea tucks it around him now. 

“You’re no good to him if you get sick too,” he murmurs. 

Tears are frozen in icy pearls clumped on the inky shock of Dutch’s eyelashes. Hosea debates with himself for a moment before settling into the snow beside him. 

“What do we do if- we lose him?” Dutch’s voice is steadier than Hosea expected, but the way his breath hitches betrays him.

Hosea’s throat tightens. It’s rare of Dutch to face things so head-on, but then again, it’s rare they get so much of a warning before a death. He swallows. 

“Same as -- before, I suppose,” he says quietly. “Got too many people relying on us now.”

The bitter, angry,  _ hurting  _ half of him is screaming to raid Pearson’s liquor stash, to crawl back into a bottle and let the hours and days blur. 

It would undoubtedly make things more bearable, but if this is the last days they have on earth with their son- well, the least Hosea can do is make sure he’s sober enough to hold Arthur’s hand.

Dutch’s fingers are digging into the meat of his upper arm, and Hosea pries them away gently, smiling sadly when Dutch startles, comes back to himself. 

“What do we do if he makes it?” 

Hosea blinks. 

“He’s- he’s hurtin’, Hosea, and bad. I saw it, you saw it.”

Hosea nods, lets his gaze drop down to the snow around his knees. 

“He asked me to shoot him,” Dutch whispers, strained. “ _ Shoot _ him.” 

“I heard it,” Hosea murmurs back, still numb. “Reckon if... _ when  _ he gets better, there’s a good chance he’ll shut up tighter than an old house again.” 

Dutch goes quiet, and Hosea can practically hear the gears turning.

“Come do your thinkin’ in the cabin,'' Hosea says, getting to his feet and dusting off the snow. 

The hard-packed powder is sharp in the icy stillness. Dutch’s boots are a steady rhythm behind him. 

Arthur’s still asleep, curled up on his side now. The tang of sickness is sour-sweet. Hosea stops by the bed to smooth back Arthur’s hair, exhales a quiet breath at the steady heat of his skin.

In the dim light, Dutch looks almost holy, bowed over in the chair with his hands clasped between his knees, an unlit cigar dangled between his fingers instead of rosary beads. Hosea’s sure there’s a metaphor there, somewhere. 

  
  


He wonders, quietly, when he started thinking of this as the end. 

  
  


* * *

_ silver as fish skin, one hour _

_ wrinkled, two hours smooth, _

_ duck-fouled, trash-choked, silent _

_ then gossiping under a full, red moon. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
